The first workday after a holiday always tends to leave people sluggish. Fang Yiming’s mood was not particularly upbeat. He sat down at his desk in silence, opened his computer, and when the woman passed by, he politely said “thank you” and set the orange she handed him at the corner of his desk without much thought.

Someone peeled one open, took a bite, and exclaimed, “These oranges are so sweet — juicy too, much better than what I buy at the supermarket. Sister Xu, where did you get them?” The woman stopped next to Fang Yiming and said brightly, “From Old Fang’s daughter! Grown by farmers themselves, four yuan a pound — very affordable. If any of you want to buy some, you can ask Old Fang whether there are more.”

Fang Yiming and his colleagues were both caught off guard for a moment, struggling to connect what she’d said with the person she was referring to.

Fang Yiming had always maintained the image of a refined, cultivated gentleman at work. He never arrived in anything less than a perfectly pressed suit, giving the impression of a man with exacting standards. Combined with his firm, chiseled features and clean-cut good looks, he made a favorable impression at first glance. Even if he wasn’t particularly warm toward colleagues, he was generally well-liked and well-regarded.

A colleague laughed. “Sister Xu, you must be misremembering. Since when does Old Fang have a daughter? And how would Old Fang’s household be selling oranges?”

The woman rested her hand on Fang Yiming’s desk. Her fingertip, painted in red nail polish, tapped lightly on the surface. She glanced down at him from above. Her face wore a perfectly friendly smile, yet from Fang Yiming’s angle looking up, it carried an unmistakable edge of irony.

“She’s quite grown already — third year of high school this year. I heard she used to live with her grandmother in the countryside. No one was taking care of her properly, so she moved back. She even came to bring Old Fang an umbrella a while back. Isn’t that right, Old Fang?”

Fang Yiming’s expression darkened. Inwardly, he was full of resistance and displeasure — even the most obtuse person could tell this woman was targeting him — but he had no idea what her reason for coming after him could be.

He neither agreed right away nor denied it. From that, everyone understood it was likely all true. There was an immediate wave of shock and awkwardness, and no one was quite sure which emotion was stronger.

The colleague who had stepped into this minefield first could only give an awkward laugh and, not wanting to linger on a topic so easily misread, forge ahead painfully, “So where did these oranges come from? Old Fang, did you bring them from your hometown?”

“Oh goodness, I remembered wrong — look at me.” The woman slapped her hand against her cheek and said with a show of regret, “That was just a few days ago. These aren’t from Old Fang’s house.”

Everyone quietly let out a breath of relief.

Before the moment could be smoothed over, the woman immediately followed up: “They’re from Old Fang’s daughter’s uncle’s house.”

Everyone fell silent and buried themselves in their keyboards.

“I was on my way out yesterday when I saw the girl selling things on the roadside. She lives with her uncle out in the countryside now — I heard the elderly relative has trouble getting around, so she brought the oranges to town to sell. All by herself, sitting on the street, reading a book while selling her goods, sitting there the entire day without a single sale. If I hadn’t happened to pass by, who knows how long she would have waited.”

The woman walked toward her own desk, the sharp click of her heels against the floor clear and crisp, her voice carrying a deliberate lilt as she went, dripping with the unmistakable flavor of pointed commentary. “Young people these days are so thrifty — wearing the same clothes for years, clearly old, even buying second-hand school uniforms, not being particular about shoes at all. And the child is especially self-motivated: working to help support the household, yet still finds time to read. So filial, so sensible, so pretty — I’m utterly envious. If my son could be even half like her, I’d be laughing in my sleep!”

The colleagues felt the air go thick. They held their breath, unable to exhale. Fingers tapped out a row of gibberish on the keyboards, then pressed delete to clear it. Eyes exchanged glances, drifting repeatedly toward Fang Yiming’s direction.

Fang Yiming looked up and said, “I gave her five thousand yuan just last month.”

“Is that right?” The woman sat down, looking surprised. “She’s just a student — why did you suddenly give her that much? Did your current wife agree to that?”

This father’s indifference toward Fang Zhuo had not been particularly well-concealed. Everyone in that office had spent years in the world — it wasn’t as though they couldn’t read something as transparent as shallow sentiment and pretense. They simply made it a rule not to get involved in other people’s family affairs, gossiping about it in private at most.

Fang Yiming knew he couldn’t out-argue her. Unable to find an adequate explanation in the moment, he simply closed his mouth. After a pause, he said, “She never told me she was short on money.”

Then, disregarding the opinions around him, he buried himself in his work.

But his productivity was poor. He spent hours on a summary document that he still couldn’t finish. The image of Fang Zhuo’s decisive expression as she left, and the cutting words she’d thrown out at the end, kept replaying in his mind. He concluded that this had been a long-premeditated act of revenge.

He felt that Fang Zhuo had gone too far. If she needed something, she could have come to him and said so — why resort to something like this? Using someone else’s goodwill and her own innocent appearance to smear her own father — what kind of person was she?

He also thought that Fang Zhuo was, in the end, unlike her mother. He didn’t know where she’d picked up such a calculating streak, how she’d become so frightening.

The more he thought about it, the more incensed he felt, a burning resentment swelling in his chest. The curious stares of the people around him made him feel like he was sitting on pins and needles, as though every second he managed to stay composed was itself a kind of error. Even the orange sitting in his peripheral vision began to look repulsive.

He reached over, grabbed it, threw it into his desk drawer, and slammed it shut. Out of sight, out of mind.

At noon, Fang Yiming took leave and said he was going to school to find Fang Zhuo and clear up the misunderstanding. He picked up his briefcase and hurried out.

The high school wasn’t terribly far from his office. He drove himself, and the road was clear — he reached the nearby parking lot in half an hour.

When he reached the school gate, he paused and composed himself, settling his expression somewhere between neutral and warmly approachable.

But as he made his way into the classroom building, he realized vaguely that he had no idea which class Fang Zhuo attended.

He had a dim sense it was either Class Five or Class Six, but he wasn’t sure. He took out his phone to check and discovered he hadn’t even saved her homeroom teacher’s number.

By comparison, he knew down to the dormitory number and the color of his son’s blanket — every detail of the boy’s life. Fang Zhuo’s comings and goings, on the other hand, had never much engaged his attention.

After all, one was a son he had personally raised from childhood; the other was a relative he’d only spent a handful of occasions with.

The third-year cohort had only a dozen or so classes in total. Fang Yiming simply stood at the window of each room and looked through them in turn.

Fang Zhuo was easy enough to pick out. Fang Yiming swept his gaze through each room and quickly found the girl at the very back of the room, attentively following the lesson.

He checked the class sign beside the door. So it was Class One, he noted to himself.

Fang Yiming went around to the front door, knocked, pushed it open, and said directly, “Hello, Teacher. I’m here to see Fang Zhuo.”

Dozens of pairs of eyes turned in unison toward the back row.

Fang Zhuo had a piece of gauze taped to her head. That conspicuous dressing made her already-pale complexion look even more sunken and shadowed.

The teacher, seeing that Fang Zhuo hadn’t moved from her seat, walked over with the test papers in hand and asked, “What is your relationship to the student?”

Fang Yiming stepped back slightly and said, “I’m her father. I just need a word with her.”

Only then did Fang Zhuo slowly stand up, making her way out through the aisle along the wall.

Fang Yiming watched her listless, dull demeanor and felt a flicker of irritation — the urge to rush her to move faster — but he barely restrained himself. He waited until she was close enough, then guided her to the far end of the hallway.

He deliberately avoided looking at the injury on her head. His face dark, he said, “Did you get into a fight?”

Fang Zhuo: “No.”

Fang Yiming didn’t press it further. He chose his words carefully and began, “Fang Zhuo — I am your father, after all. If you have any grievances, you can come directly to me. You shouldn’t resort to these kinds of tactics. If you truly came back to ask me for money, I would still give it to you.”

Fang Zhuo looked at him steadily and asked, “What are you referring to?”

“What did you say to my colleagues?” Fang Yiming, even with all his mental preparation, couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. “How is it that a third-year student ends up vending on the street? What exactly is your uncle’s situation? Did he put you up to this? Have you even met him before, to just take his word like that?”

Fang Zhuo interrupted him. “It has nothing to do with him.”

Fang Yiming demanded, “Why did you tell my colleagues I’ve been mistreating you?”

Fang Zhuo remained steady and unhurried. “I never said that.”

“But you made them think it! What does it mean for you to go stand on the street selling things? What kind of young person does that?”

“What other people choose to infer is not my concern.”

Fang Yiming was beginning to lose his grip. The frustration with nowhere to go began climbing from his neck upward, slowly suffusing his face red.

He stared coldly at the person in front of him. The words of reprimand hadn’t yet left his mouth when a voice cut in.

“Fang Zhuo.” The homeroom teacher walked over and asked, “What’s going on?”

Fang Zhuo turned around and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Is this your family?” the teacher said. “You go back to class — third year is busy, and I’ll speak with your family member for you.”

Fang Zhuo didn’t ask for Fang Yiming’s opinion. She simply walked back to the classroom.

The teacher extended a hand in greeting. “Hello. You must be Mr. Fang?”

“Yes.” Fang Yiming glanced toward the classroom, then turned his attention back, asking distractedly, “How has Fang Zhuo been doing at school?”

The teacher smiled. “She’s doing fine. Actually, I’ve been meaning to see her family — I was worried there might be some difficulty at home.”

Fang Yiming’s dismissiveness showed through, a strained smile crossing his face. “Nothing like that. She just grew up with her grandmother and has some habits that haven’t changed yet.”

“Is that so?” The teacher withdrew her hand and placed it on her hip. “I’m still rather concerned about Fang Zhuo. Life hasn’t been very smooth for her.”

Fang Yiming grew serious. He said, his voice low, “What did she tell you?”

“She hasn’t told me anything — she doesn’t say anything at all. But as a teacher, I can see for myself.” The teacher paused. “Do you know how her head got injured?”

Fang Yiming looked slightly uncomfortable. “I was just asking about that.”

The teacher nodded, her expression unflinching. “She was hungry — too hungry. She fell while walking on the road, hit her head against the edge of a step, and bled a great deal.”

Fang Yiming’s eyes widened in shock.

“She had no money for food. So she went out during the National Day holiday to earn some.” The teacher said, “If there’s some misunderstanding between you two, I think the sooner it’s resolved, the better. She’s a third-year student — she shouldn’t be living like this.”

Fang Yiming was left feeling deeply shamed. He also began to wonder whether his earlier assumptions had been wrong. He could barely take in what was said after that, and found a pretext to leave hurriedly.

The teacher watched his near-panicked retreat, let out a quiet sigh, and shook her head, wondering at the kinds of parents this world could produce.

When the bell rang signaling the end of class, she called Fang Zhuo to her office.

Fang Zhuo had assumed the teacher had believed what Fang Yiming said and was about to deliver some kind of lecture about family relations. She came reluctantly, and the moment she entered the office she leaned against the wall, wearing the expression of someone who had already selectively tuned everything out.

The teacher couldn’t help laughing. “Your uncle called me. Don’t worry about anything — just focus on your studies. If you run into any trouble, tell me. Right now your top priority is preparing for the university entrance exams.”

Fang Zhuo hadn’t expected to hear Ye Yuncheng’s name. Surprised, she asked, “What did he say?”

“Not much.” The teacher pressed a hand against her lesson plan and thought for a moment, then added another sentence to put Fang Zhuo’s mind at ease. “You won’t be transferred to another school. Go back to class.”

Fang Zhuo understood.

He’d advocated on her behalf.

Through all her years of schooling — over a decade of it — this was the first time a guardian had ever complained to the teacher on her behalf.

Taking advantage of Fang Zhuo’s absence, Shen Musi had been draped over Yan Lie’s desk whispering, “So Fang Zhuo’s family — turns out they’re not that poor? I thought she was extremely poor.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Fang Zhuo walked in through the back door.

Shen Musi’s expression flashed with alarm. He immediately changed the subject and asked, “Does your head still hurt?”

Fang Zhuo sat down, turned to him with a faint smile, and said, “It doesn’t hurt.”

Shen Musi felt a chill run through him.

He was a little scared.

Was this the killing intent lurking just before dawn?